


Like Brothers

by catastrophage



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Serious Injuries, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8514736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophage/pseuds/catastrophage
Summary: His throat tightened, thinking about what might have happened just now. He could hear steps behind, someone running after him. They were out to get him, to murder him, like they would murder everyone else.This story is low in spoilers and mostly non-spoilers. More info in the notes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler Alert - this fanfiction is meant to be placed between season 6 and 7. However I kept my spoilers so minimal and vague and even misleading that you may be okay reading it at any time post Coda (mid-season 5). It can blend in between mid-season 4 and 5 as well, even if not as smoothly. It's up to your imagination.
> 
> This story was written for Rika, with slang help from my dear friend April.

**Like Brothers**

He could feel the forest ground under his feet, soft and uneven. He was running, just looking up to avoid hitting a tree, looking down to avoid falling. He hadn't noticed his hat falling off, he didn't care. His view blurred when he tried to focus for more than a second, from his injury, from the adrenaline rushing through his veins, from his panic. A gunshot in the distance, men yelling at each other. Michonne's screaming and wailing. Another gunshot - silence.

His throat tightened, thinking about what might have happened just now. Thinking about what happened before. For two years he had seen nightmares every day he was awake. And yet every new day came with worse events, with more cruelty, more dead friends, dead family. People he loved had turned into monsters, into mutilated faces, torn apart and insides turned out. He wanted to cry, to break down, to bury his knees in the mud. He wanted to be a kid just once more. Weak. Helpless.

He could hear steps behind, someone running after him. They were out to get him, to murder him, like they would murder everyone else. Was it the guy with the axe? Was it the guy with the bat? Was it someone carrying a gun, and would he shoot him before he reached a shelter? He did not dare to turn around, did not dare to stop. He could feel his heart beating strong against his chest, his lungs stinging, a cough forming in his still clenched throat - and his feet went on and on over the forest ground, jumping over twigs, straining an ankle on a rock but ignoring the pain - he regained his balance and ran, further, further.

When he reached a cliff, he heard the man behind him panting, coughing, his steps stumbling. His own heart was aching in his chest, he needed a minute to catch his breath. A minute he didn't have. But what else to do? Down the cliff, risking his neck break? How were the chances to survive? How much better the chances he could dodge the other, to push him down...

Carl turned around. The man who had chased him was still some feet away, he obviously had needed some seconds of rest himself. It was still hard to focus, to recognize the man who came closer and fell down onto his knees when he saw him standing still. He tried to concentrate on the crouched stature down before him and then he recognized him - his long hair, his strong build and his leather vest. The wings now clearly visible, when the older almost fainted.

"Daryl?"

The hunter couldn't answer. He had trouble catching his breath and was visibly in pain from the gunshot earlier. He was unarmed like the boy, his crossbow taken away by the enemy. 

"We alone?"

Daryl forced himself to look up and nodded. Then he grimaced and held his arm, the pain returning full force now that the effects of adrenaline wore off. He cursed but only a quiet whine escaped his lungs. Carl didn't know what to say. He had noticed the man was hurt, back there. He had not expected him to follow, hadn't expected anyone to follow but the enemy.

"I'm sorry."

Daryl looked at him, still not saying anything. His lips formed two silent words. Don't be.

"I shouldn't have run so far. Didn't know it was you. I thought they'd kill me."

The hunter coughed and bent down again. His hands hit the ground, one shaking severely from pain.  
Then he slowly pushed his legs up. He stood, unsteadily. "Ya done what'cha need to."

Without further words they both approached the cliff. Down below, almost a hundred feet away, was a street. It was one of the streets they had been on earlier, just now it was vacated and looked like every other street - a few cars, possibly broken and out of fuel - and walkers. By what chance would they survive the way down, both injured. And what were the odds one of the cars was starting. They both wondered, quietly.

Going back would mean they risked getting caught. If just caught and not shot and Carl was actually quite sure they would shoot Daryl, not risking him to break free again. They had already shot him just to tame him after all.

"This is not so much a question of how we survive, but rather how we are going to die, right?"

Daryl just snorted. "Killin' m'self ain't my thing." He started pacing left and right along the cliff, looking down from different angles.  
Then he kneeled down at one spot. "Gimme yer shirt, both."

Carl hesitated. It was spring and quite cold and rainy for the South, at least at night. But he quickly realized Daryl couldn't take his own clothes, he couldn't undress with his injury and even if he could, what he had was sleeveless and damaged. So Carl handed him his overshirt and then undressed the polo he was wearing below.  
"Sorry boy," Daryl said when he ripped apart the side of his polo shirt with his hands and teeth. He had a fierce expression and Carl could tell what he did was hurting him, the fabric too sturdy to just comply. He wished he had a knife and in that case Daryl would have one as well. The knife he got from Beth. Again, Carl could feel his throat tighten with sadness. He felt naked without a knife, but Daryl must have been just as sad and lost as he was.

The older continued working the shirts into a makeshift rope. He crawled to the edge of the cliff and reached down, where he had found a root, strong enough to hold them. By the dim chance that the rope would hold them in the first place. He tilted his head, not quite happy with the plan, but there was no other plan and time was running out. The others had cars. They could come down that road every moment and then they'd be done.

"Carl. Ya see here? We go down here. We gonna drop from that rope to the tree." He pointed at the tree below them, which grew right out of the hill, roughly at midway between the cliff and the street. "'gonna hurt ya legs, but ya might could make it." Carl nodded and when he didn't climb down, Daryl gave him a look of expectation. "Go first. That rope's gonna break under me weight."

For a moment Carl wished they had just committed double suicide. He could climb, but climbing was just an option for some feet worth of height and then he'd drop and like Daryl said, it would hurt. He would be lucky if he just strained his ankle. And then? Unarmed, without being able to walk and half naked he would have to deal with the walkers. "This is crazy," he mumbled and kneeled down, his back towards the cliff. Two strong hands grabbed his arms and held him, while his feet were searching for a jut or notch. He could feel Daryl's muscles giving up already and wondered how the older was going to climb with his injuries, and without any support from above. 

Carl made it to the rope and let himself down as far as he could. He tried to slither down rather than just dropping, which he regretted the very second. He could feel every single stone, every root and every bump. He could feel his pants tear and the hot pain of scratched skin. But then he landed on the tree stem, and aside from his hands which got bruised by the bark, and a little strain in his ankle, he survived it very well. Even more, he could see the tree's roots now, which provided a climbing way down to the street. He looked up, but Daryl was gone. He didn't dare to call him, didn't want to attract the walkers, but he could feel fear coming up. And then as fast as he had left, the other returned, some long and pointy branches in his hands. "I'm fixin' to drop 'em." His voice was just loud enough for Carl to hear him. Daryl knew what he was doing, obviously. "Ya gotta catch 'em."

The boy had just a moment to realize what was going to happen, when Daryl let the first branch drop. He dropped it horizontally, so it wouldn't stab the younger. Carl had his trouble catching it, and then he realized he had to store it, because he couldn't hold it while climbing down. He found a hole in the wall and stuck his new weapon into it. How-ever Daryl was going to throw it down the second half without making any noise...  
Carl did the same to the second branch, which thankfully landed just as safely in his hands as the first. Then he gestured for Daryl that he would be on his way down the second half. Daryl just nodded.

He didn't know what happened above him, the tree blocked his view, but he could hear the man above him, slithering down the cliff just like he had a minute before. He could hear a huff, a suppressed moan and a lot of cracking, which hopefully were just twigs. Then he saw him at the branches, taking them out of the earth hole.  
When Carl reached the street level, magically unharmed aside from a good lot of smaller scratches and marks, he caught the branches Daryl dropped. The walkers had not noticed him yet, but one of the branches hit the street with a loud thunk. Then Daryl came down the hill and he was anything but quiet. His arm hurt him so much now he was barely able to climb any further, part of the way he just slithered, and he cursed when he used his still intact arm to slow down. The last bit of his way he fell. 

"Hope ya done seen Morgan his fightin'!" Daryl exclaimed, down on street level, when got back onto his feet and picked up his own branch. He used it as a spear to kill the closest two walkers. Then he fell down on his knees, visibly past his limits. Carl did not have a choice but to fight.

And he made it. There had just been a handful to begin with, and those were all dead. Without hesitation he approached the cars and tested if any were open and seemingly intact. It took a moment for Daryl to join him. The man was limping and did not say a word. He took the driver's seat and tried starting the car. It worked.  
Carl could feel his pessimism arise. This was too much luck, something would end up horribly wrong, he was sure. "This was too easy," he told the other. But Daryl just shrugged it off. "Nah." 

They went as far as they could with the fuel they had. When the display was close to zero, they stopped at a warehouse. Daryl opened the gate and then returned to drive the car inside, hiding it from possible persecutors. Most doors were closed and intact. A few walker corpses lay in the entrance area. The men were too hurt and worn out to check the whole building, but it seemed safe for the time being.

Daryl looked at Carl, who was still sitting next to him. For a moment they both were silent. Then Daryl raised his arm for a couple of inches. "That bullet done stuck. Can ya help?" Carl was not sure if he could, but they didn't have other options. "It's going to hurt really bad. Are you okay with that?" Daryl nodded and grabbed for the steering wheel with his good hand. Carl did not have any tools to get it out, so he unbuttoned the other's shirt, ripped off a strip for compression and tried to get the bullet with his fingers. He had to go in way deeper than he would have with tweezers. At the beginning Daryl did not make a sound. His fingers clenched around the steering wheel, his knuckles turned pale. He nervously pressed his lips together and turned his head to look out of the car. Then the pain was too much. His breath became rough and short, suppressed moans escaped his mouth, like the whimpers and huffs of a dog who wants to bark and is not allowed to. Eventually Carl got to it. The blood was leaking out again, making the bullet all slippery. With a scrap of Daryl's shirt he somehow managed to get hold of it. The moment he pulled it out, Daryl cursed aloud. "Damn it!" He winced and flinched, moving his arm away from the kid. Carl held up the bullet. "It's okay. Here it is."

The boy looked like he had just murdered someone, blood all over his hands. Daryl felt close to fainting, his view blurring in and out. "Fix it up, will ya?" he mumbled, barely any power left in his voice.

The sound of tearing fabric felt good to the boy, maybe as some kind of revenge for his destroyed and abandoned shirts. Carl's eyes were glowing. Daryl did not see it. He had bowed his head down, his long hair limiting his view that was blacked out anyway. His forehead hit the steering wheel every now and then, when Carl made a hasty movement. He did not care, let it just happen. The pain turned into numbness.

He woke up again when two cold hands touched his face. "Daryl?" The teenager's voice sounded worried, frightened and a little shaky. "Daryl, wake up!"

The first noise he made was some form of complaint, then he looked up, out into the dark of the warehouse. "Walkers?" Carl withdrew his hands. "No... I think we're safe here." Carl had been worried about Daryl fainting. Subconsciously he was always on alert, but he hadn't thought of the walkers just then. He hadn't heard a sound, hadn't seen any. This seemed to relieve the hunter, who leaned back in his seat and looked at the car's inside. He started to eye him now, and all of a sudden, after hours, Carl felt naked. He hugged his torso, scratched and bruised from the way down the cliff. Daryl's look felt like that of a predator, the more the longer it lasted. Then the older man looked away again. He checked the warehouse once more, undressed his vest and what was left of his shirt with a painful grimace. He reached it over to Carl, silently. When the younger wouldn't take it, he pushed it against his chest.

Then, while Carl hesitantly put on the damaged fabric, he searched for the little wheels and levers to lower the seats with his good hand. They would sleep in the car, regain some strength to at least make it through the next morning. Carl helped him remove the headrest, when he understood what he was up to. On the seats now combined to bed length, Daryl lay down and looked at the boy again. "Come 'ere." 

Carl wasn't sure how to react. He had been in a group with Daryl for many months, he had stopped counting. He was part of his family, not related by blood but related by shared life events. He would have trusted him to take care of Judith, to protect anyone of their group, to make decisions of vital importance. But right there, in the dark warehouse, Carl realized he didn't really know the man. He felt vulnerable and alone.

"'s okay. I don't bite." Daryl shifted closer to the door, so Carl had more space. "Don't want ya t' freeze." Only then Carl realized that his embarrassment earlier could have looked like shielding the cold and that he was, in fact, not very warm. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw his lips, pale and brittle. Daryl reached out for his wrists and pulled him over and closer, rather just guiding him than using force. "Rick's my brother. Cain't reckon what happened. An yer kinda a brother t' me yerself."

Daryl's voice sounded hoarse now, and although he seemed like he wanted to say more, he just stopped. Carl could feel the older man's sadness, when he lay down next to him in the narrow space, half on his chest. And this made him realize that he had all reason to be sad as well. He had lost his family, everyone who was left. Whether they got shot or imprisoned by the enemy was not of much difference. He was unarmed, half naked, cold and injured. One strong arm pulled him into an embrace. He noticed his tears were falling down onto the hunter, he noticed how he was crying, now that they were safe. He rest his head on the chest below him and could sense Daryl quiver from silent crying as well. The hand stroking through Carl's hair, holding him close, was comforting them both.

Daryl fell asleep first, exhausted from his injuries. He had saved their lives, Carl realized. He had never done anything else than saving their lives. He did not need to know him any better - he was as sad and broken as he was himself. He was his last remaining family. The last person to let him be a kid, weak and helpless. He was his brother now.


End file.
